The Case of the Love-Stricken Addict
by xMeganful
Summary: Never had the Army Doctor been so baffled by any case; not a case as strange as the case of the love-stricken addict. Yet what a beautiful mystery it was, frustration and bliss both intertwined. JOHNLOCK fluff and smut.
1. Prologue

Upon the first morning of summer, the air mild with falling rain, Dr. John Watson found himself in a cab, traveling home from a disappointing meeting with his sibling. Her promises of sobriety were, once again, hollow; John knew that the woman was hopeless, but alas, he tried to help her. _Because that's just what you do for family._

A familiar buzzing sent him rummaging in his pockets, pulling his phone from it as he listened to the text alert.

 _Baker Street. New leads on case._

 _SH_

 _What case?  
_

 _JW_

 _An old one. Please. Come quickly._

 _SH_

The doctor knew that it was unlike the Consulting Detective to beg. With haste, he promised the cabbie a great tip if they arrived at Baker Street with speed. With rain beating down on the windows, John watched with growing anxiety. _What case?_

Baker Street was desolate, rainwater soaking his coat and collecting on the pavement as he approached 221B. Fumbling with his keys, his fingertips numb to the cold, he entered. John shook the water droplets from his hands and face, peeling of his coat as he embraced the building's warmth. Upstairs, the sound of Sherlock's violin could be heard, playing a sweet melody that John briefly recognised. He had heard the tune before, after the supposed death of The Woman, when his mind was stricken with grief and his days were spent within deep thought.

"Sherlock?" calling up the stairs, apprehension within him, he approached the melody's origin. Creaking open the door, the sound of wooden floorboards revealing the position of his steps, Sherlock cast a sideward glance to the medical man.

Plainly, he stated, "John. You're back."

"Well- yes." furrowing his eyebrows, John seated himself in his usual armchair. He watched his friend at the window, who's eyes were on him, yet unfocused and distant. Clearing his throat, John voiced, "You said you have a new lead on an old case?"

Setting down the violin, Sherlock clasped his hands in front of him. "Yes. A case. A case that...started a long time ago and never has been solved." hesitant, his eyes averted, he breathed with anguish, "I wanted your opinion - your advice - on a _particularly_ difficult case."

"Which is?" he probed in response, leaning forward in his seat. The anxiety in his friend's eyes concerned him deeply, "If something's wrong, you know, you can talk to me. About anything."

"Anything?" his words didn't escape Sherlock's attention, as he became drawn to them like a moth to a flame. "You're sure?"

"Yes. Of course." John insistently nodded, "Anything. Well, maybe not anything, but for the most part-"

"John," taking the seat opposite, Sherlock pressed his hands in front of his face, "There is no way for me to say this. I cannot fathom the words that would even begin to describe what I wish to describe to you. So, I will settle for a single action." leaning forward, the Consulting Detective placed a hand on his partner's knee. Recalling the touches that had occurred over the years, this one did not compare. These touches had previously not bothered either of them.

 _But now._

Now, something was beginning to stir within them. Something that had sat below the surface for many years, building and bubbling, awaiting the day that it would overflow and desire would become uncontrollable. Throughout their time together, John had struggled to deny to the people surrounding them that _they were not in fact a couple,_ and that _he was not gay,_ though the years of confusion and frustration had ended; John Watson, Captain and Army Doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, knew that his thoughts had aligned. _And what a beautiful constellation they made._

Clearing his throat, John muttered, _"I don't mind."_


	2. Do Shut Up

Summer had finally arrived in London, the trees coloured with vibrant leaves of green, the sun beating down on the scalding pavements. _Took bloody long enough, it's mid July!_

John Watson, upon returning to 221B after a brief visit to a crime scene, threw himself onto the sofa. "This weather- I've had enough of it." he grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'm sick of it being bloody scorching."

"Yesterday, you were complaining that it was cold. Now you're complaining that it's hot?" the Consulting Detective sat at the kitchen table, examining a piece of rope under a microscope. Despite the great control over his bodily functions, the heat was beginning to affect him, too.

"Bloody impossible weather." muttered he to himself, unfolding a newspaper and flicking through the pages. Gesturing to Sherlock's workings, he pondered aloud, "Found anything interesting?"

"Possibly. Look." straightening his back, he watched as John reluctantly sat down his newspaper and crossed the room. Peering through the microscope, the doctor furrowed his eyebrows.

He admitted blankly, "Looks like a piece of string under a microscope."

"It is. But that's not what I was looking at." both men become conscious of lack of space between them, somewhat daunted in the face of the situation. Sherlock's eyes traced his partner's features, his eyes lit with delight.

"What were you looking at, then?" clearing his throat, John inquired. Rising from his seat, the brunette moved _impossibly_ closer, his face slick with sweat.

"You, John." whilst the man was accustomed to the subjection of Sherlock's deductive gaze, he felt transparent, shifting his weight as he tried to maintain eye contact. Sherlock noticed this, stating, "I've made you uncomfortable."

"No- no. No, 'course you haven't." he stumbled, "Just uh- shocked."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock grimaced, "Shocked?"

"Yeah, I mean, I didn't think-" a smile dangled precariously from his lips, his words filled with uncertainty, "I don't know."

"Pupils dilated, heart rate elevated. I think you do know, Dr. Watson." John knew that his body had betrayed him, his eyes and movements revealing the truth that he refused to voice, _and Sherlock could see it._

Clearing his throat, he growled, his voice low, "Shut up." his chest rose and fell with anxiety, his friend watching with an amused expression. "You...always have to be such a dickhead." said he, though a smile lit his face.

Humming in agreement, Sherlock rested a finger under John's chin, tilting his head to meet his lips. Briefly indulging himself in the kiss, the doctor pulled away.

"Not here, not like this. Not when it's _this bloody hot._ " he grumbled, reluctantly deny himself the touch of the Consulting Detective.

A growl low in his throat, Sherlock groaned, "Oh, _do_ shut up about the weather." pressing himself against his friend, he embraces him, their lips connected in a long kiss. Inhaling sharply, John hummed in delight. _Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You'll be the death of me, you will._


	3. Amidst The Night

Night had fallen upon Baker Street when the silent call of old habits wrecked havoc in Sherlock Holmes' mind. As he tried to reorganise the thoughts in his mind palace, his narcotic urges resurfaced, his self-control seemingly slipping away from him by the second.

 _Once an addict, always an addict,_ he thought bitterly. Pushing himself from his bed, he stood in only a sheet, emerging from the bedroom. Dim lights illuminated the flat, enough so that they could see their way whilst stumbling to the bathroom. Sitting upon the sofa, sleep deprivation sagging his body, he remained in silence. On the table sat a violin, the instrument that Sherlock was so fond of. Taking it in his hands, conscious that the doctor upstairs would hear him, he played a quiet tune. Apart of him wanted John to be woken by the melody, so then maybe he'd come downstairs and join him on the sofa. Though Sherlock knew that anger would be the only emotion his friend would feel, as the time ticked over to 3:52.

Barely a few minutes had passed when John appeared in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Sherlock observed, noticing that he was not angry; he seemed concerned for the man.

"Why are you playing the violin at this ungodly hour?" he queried, leaning against the door frame of 221B.

With pursed lips, the Consulting Detective muttered, "I couldn't sleep."

Casting a glance to him, John sighed with irritation, "So you decided to wake me up?"

"Yes." admitted he, who replaced the violin on the table. In defeat, his friend sat beside him on the sofa. After a moment, Sherlock called through the dim light, "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" inhaling sharply, he attempted to shake the tiredness from his form.

"Regarding today's events..." he began, recalling the memories of John's lips upon his own. Shortly thereafter, Detective Inspector Lestrade had called, summoning them both to Scotland Yard. The two men had returned from solving their latest crime barely three hours ago, sleep immediately claiming them. "I hope you do not think different of me."

"Is that what this is about?" John raised an eyebrow, shocked and amused by his words. "You're worried that I might think different of you because you kissed me?"

"Well-" bemusement painted his features, "...yes."

He snorted, "You're ridiculous."

"I'm ridiculous?" accusation filled his tone as he turned his head, meeting the doctor's eyes. He pulled the sheet tighter around himself.

"Yes. You are _completely_ and _utterly_ _ridiculous_." he articulated each word with a smile on his lips. Softly, he spoke, "Of course I don't think different of you."

Piercing his gaze, the brunette raised an eyebrow in disbelief, "You don't? Not at all?"

"No. _Not at all._ " John assured him, watching as the brilliant detective leaned back in his seat and stared into the distance. They remained silent, listening to the world outside their window in the darkness. Sherlock, unbeknownst to himself, rested his head against John's shoulder, his body craving sleep but his mind craving cocaine. The doctor seemed to sense this, for he asked gently, "There wasn't anything else, was there? On your mind, I mean?"

"Amongst other things, yes." he confessed, closing his eyes briefly. "Old habits never perish easily, John." Sherlock divulged, concerning the man beside him.

"You haven't-"

"No, I haven't." interrupting the question, the Consulting Detective stated. "Doesn't mean I don't _want_ to." he hesitated before continuing, "But I won't."

Shaking his head, John cleared his throat, "I should hope so, Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes."

Both men grinned a final time before sleep overcame them.


	4. Your Lips Are Key

Morning awoke the Consulting Detective, sunlight warming his skin as he shifted on the sofa. Below him, he could feel the familiar body of John Watson.

"Morning, Sherlock." he croaked, clearing his throat. Sherlock's head rested in his lap, his body sprawled across the sofa, the position somewhat _comfortable_.

Swallowing awkwardly, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Just gone six." responded John, glancing to his watch. The bed sheet covering the brunette had shifted in the night, though still covering his modesty, as the telly played _some programme that he couldn't care for._ "Lestrade called, said to take the day off. You overdid it yesterday."

"I did _not_." he argued defensively, his eyebrows furrowed as he glared at John from his lap. Neither men made an effort to change their position, with John's hands loosely fiddling with Sherlock's curls.

"Yes, _you did,_ Sherlock." his tone was firm but his expression was content, leaving a smile on his lips. "You've barely eaten or slept in a week."

"Transport." muttered he, casting his glance away from the blonde man for a moment. "Why can't transport be self-sufficient? It would be _immensely_ easier."

Lowering his voice, John averted his eyes, "Well, I happen to like your transport and _I'd_ _rather_ you didn't ruin it." the Consulting Detective watched the doctor in curiosity, memorising him from a new angle, the words he spoke capturing his attention. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, forcing John to meet his gaze. Taking a fistful of shirt into his hand, he pulled himself further into him, touching their lips briefly. John swiftly initiated a second kiss, his hand touching the other man's hip.

Breathing against him, Sherlock murmured, "John," this immediately caused his friend to regain his senses, pushing himself from the sofa as he begun to mutter frantically. Baffled, the Consulting Detective observed him curiously, "John-" he called, standing.

"No, Sherlock, I can't do this." John stood awkwardly, his eyes focused on the floorboards below his feet. "I can't do it."

"Do what? _Why_ _not?_ " he whined, irritated by his friend's indecisiveness. "We're not even _doing_ anything."

He glared in response, his voice low, "No, but we were _about to._ "

"About to _what?_ What does that even _mean?_ Oh, why do you _care_ anyway, John? It's not as if rumours aren't going around _already_." Sherlock groaned impatiently, sarcasm evident in his tone.

"I know you don't care about these things, Sherlock, but _I_ do." muttered he, who approached the brunette with agitation.

Maintaining eye contact, his gaze strong, he asserted firmly, "Yes. _Why_ is that again? Why do _you care so much_ about what other people think? I _certainly_ couldn't care less about the public opinion; they're all mindless idiots chasing their tails." breathing deeply, Sherlock continued with furrowed eyebrows, "You'd really relinquish your own desires just because a few people _disapprove?_ " his tone filled with accusation and betrayal, hurt evident within his eyes.

Averting his eyes and clearing his throat, John shook his head, "You're _unbelievable_. You arsehole, you _dickhead_ -"

"Done?"

A moment passed in silence, their eyes interlocked, "Yes." cupping his face, Sherlock swiftly connected their lips, neither men indulging their anxieties any longer. The detective pushed against the doctor with haste, deepening the kiss. John, now pressed between Sherlock and the wall, attempted to steady himself, grasping the man's hip. Writhing at the unexpected contact, he inhaled sharply with pleasure. " _God,_ you're _bloody good_ at this."

"Knowing where to place your hands is important," Sherlock responded, humming against his skin, "But knowing where to place your _lips_ is key." he nipped at the doctor's earlobe, his mouth pressing against his jawline and neck. John breathed through arousal, evident by the twitching of his body and the groan lodged in his throat.

 _"Christ, Sherlock."_ running his fingertips over the Consulting Detective's neck, he smiled with excitement in his expression. "I'm not going to last much longer if you keep going... _this_ , whatever _this_ is."

A mischievous grin lit his features, "That won't be a problem, John. I have _all_ _day,_ don't I?"


	5. Mutual Experience

Leaning over the man, touching his lips to his neck, John continued to entice the engrossed Consulting Detective. Much to his dismay, Sherlock remained unmoving, his hands pressed silently under his chin. Sighing, the doctor sat beside him on the bed, his arms crossed over his chest in bitter frustration.

Sherlock observed with confusion in his voice, "I've upset you."

"How'd you deduce that, hmm?" he muttered with sarcasm. "Yes, Sherlock. _You have._ "

"I have. _I knew it._ " for a moment, he reveled in his correction deduction. Cocking an eyebrow, Sherlock's gaze shifted to John, "How could I have possibly upset you?"

"You...just sitting there in your _mind palace._ I could beg you to... _fuck me_ and you'd probably still sit there, bloody _mute_." he responded gruffly, avoiding the man's eyes.

"Well-" he voiced, the word tumbling into the air as he furrowed his eyebrows. He was unsure of what the doctor anticipated of him. John sighed as Sherlock continued to remain pondering, his thoughts seemingly more interesting than his lover, standing from the bed to gather his previously discarded clothes. "What are you doing?"

Curtly, he voiced, "I'm going out."

"Where to?" the detective probed in response, baffled by John's indecisiveness.

"Out." he huffed. Sherlock stood, uncaring for his nudity, crossing the room to confront the man, who averted his eyes in anger. "Sherlock-" he warned lowly, his tone firm.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock subjected him to his deductive gaze, tilting his head in confusion as he spoke what he found, "You barely checked the time, let alone have somewhere to be. You didn't shower last night, suggesting that you needn't be anywhere in a hurry this morning. You're wearing yesterday's clothes, which have been on the floor for the most part of the night, so you don't care about seeming presentable or kept."

Shifting his weight uncomfortably, John clenched his jaw.

He continued with haste, "All factors suggest that you have no where to be, yet the distinct lines on your forehead tell me that you're annoyed. So, _you want to go out but you have no where to be,_ which suggest that you want to escape your current predicament. Going by the fact that you're _clearly_ annoyed, and that you haven't received a text or call since you woke up, I must be the one that caused said annoyance." the man's features changed with each conclusion he made, though John continued to stare blankly with annoyance.

"But _how?_ I haven't said or done anything _remotely unkind_ or _rude-_ " Sherlock's words slowed at once, a gasp escaping his lips as they twitched with amusement. _"Oh._ It's not about what I did do, _it's about what I didn't."_ the doctor met the pair of erratic grey eyes, piercing them with his own glare. A laugh caught in his throat, he grinned smugly, "You wanted to have sex."

"And what if I did, Sherlock? I _certainly_ don't anymore." continuing to shrug on his clothes, he fiddling with the buttons of his jeans, his head down and his eyes on the floorboards. Embarrassment lit his cheeks.

Frowning, the brunette spoke with confusion laced in his tone, "But we had sex last night? Wasn't that _enough?"_

"No, Sherlock, _we didn't._ " John growled, forcing eye contact with the man, "You got _me off_ and then _that_ was it. You didn't even _let me_ near you."

Sherlock's confused glare only intensified, " _Why_ would you want to do _that?"_

"Because that's what people do - _couples_ \- they get _each other off_ because it's a _mutual_ partnership." his features creased with frustration, his fingers rubbing his forehead, originally unbeknownst that such words needed to be said to _the clever detective in the funny hat._

"Oh." he responded, confusion and anxiety absent from his expression, fascination the only emotion he portrayed. "I suppose that does make sense; _mutual partnership."_ the words rolled from his tongue testingly. Shaking his head briefly, as if clearing his thoughts, Sherlock allowed a small smile to form. John, who now watched his lover with intrigue rather than anger, reflected the affectionate action, grinning as he pulled the man into an embrace.

"You're an idiot." he murmured, his skin warm against the pale brunette. Humming in acknowledgement, Sherlock touched his hand to John's waist, which stood bare to the detective's touch.

Leaning into the doctor's ear, he muttered, his voice deep with arousal, "About that _mutual_ experience..."


	6. A Severed Head

**A short but sweet chapter. Being in the Sherlock fandom, you must be accustomed to quality over quantity by now.  
**

* * *

Gunshots could be heard inside Baker Street's most notorious flat, as the building echoed with each bullet that landed in it's walls. Mrs Hudson stood with a tea towel grasped in her hands, flinching at each sound as she greeted Dr. Watson kindly at the door.

"What in God's name is he _doing?"_ he called in the brief silence.

"I haven't the foggiest." the landlady spoke softly, though she feared for the flat that she had tried to keep so tidy, "Said he was bored; no new murders." shaking his head briefly, John took to the stairs, his hands clasped over his ears in anticipation of another gunshot. Inside the sitting room, the walls were being thoroughly abused by the Consulting Detective, who aimed his flatmate's pistol and fired.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John queried, his voice raised in agitation.

The curt reply came, "Bored."

 _"What?"_

"Bored!" Sherlock stood from his chair, contorting his body as several gunshots rang out, repeating the same dull word until John disarmed him, taking the weapon from his hands and replacing it in it's case. "I don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall?" the doctor questioned.

"Oh, the wall had it coming." tearing the bullet fragments from the wallpaper, he discarded them to the floor. Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, a heavy sigh on his lips.

John observed the man with interest, "You know, firing a gun releases oxytocin."

 _"Yes."_ the brunette responded simply, baffled by his _obvious_ statement.

"Do you know what else releases oxytocin, Sherlock?" approaching him, John cocked an eyebrow that Sherlock perceived held deeper intent than he originally thought.

His mind buzzed with answers to his lover's question, a confused expression on his face, "Labor, laughter, ejaculation-" he watched with a slight smile as the blonde straddled his lap, _"Oh."_ kissing him softly, John leaned into the detective's touch, immersing himself in the feathery touches that Sherlock left upon his fair skin. Grinding against him, he observed with an amused grin, "You're riding an adrenaline high from hearing gunshots."

"And you're so _pent up_ that you unloaded a clip into the wall." he hummed teasingly against the taller man's lips, breathing against his skin as his hands moved to uncover Sherlock's sex, who groaned breathlessly at the contact. Touching him slowly, John captured the man in a long kiss, whose mind was foggy with arousal and his body preoccupied by his lover.

"John," he huffed frustratedly, wordlessly demanding that the deliberately slow movements were to be ceased. When his request was granted, Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, briefly moving his hips to intensify the pleasure he felt. When he came undone with a needy whimper, the blonde man began searching the kitchen for a cloth, having previously not thought through his plan of helping Sherlock's body release the chemical _he so clearly needed_. After a moment, the detective impatiently made himself decent and stood from the sofa, watching his lover as he approached the flat's fridge.

"Oh, for f-" closing the fridge door, John leaned his head into his forearm. Breathing deeply in agitation, he reopened the door, briefly peering inside to confirm his suspicions, "It's a head. _A severed head!"_

"Just tea for me, thanks-" he begun teasingly, a light grin on his face, though shattering glass and airborne debris broke into the air before the Consulting Detective could chuckle.


End file.
